


Icarus Will Always Chase the Sun

by IntoTheRiverStyx



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntoTheRiverStyx/pseuds/IntoTheRiverStyx
Summary: He had always known that, no matter the power he drew from the sun, no matter how close he came to burning himself from the inside out, drunk or perhaps mad with power stolen from that which he would  never truly master, he knew he would always be eclipsed by the sun-god that called himself his Uncle.
Relationships: Gawain/Bertilak de Hautdesert
Kudos: 16





	Icarus Will Always Chase the Sun

He had always known that, no matter the power he drew from the sun, no matter how close he came to burning himself from the inside out, drunk or perhaps mad with power stolen from that which he would never truly master, he knew he would always be eclipsed by the sun-god that called himself his Uncle.

He had come into his power, as his mother put it, far too young to understand what it meant in the face of things lesser men cowered in front of like destiny and fate and faith, never understood why he should be terrified of his gifts instead of proud of them. She said these things only when she thought her eldest would not hear. The thing about children, though, is they are made mostly of potential and secrets, and as such will always hear what they were meant to be protected from.

Determined to show how wrong she was, he turned from a reckless child to a young man whose pride and desire to exceed who he was yesterday looked a lot like self-destruction.

The sun imparted no wisdom, but it did impart a strength that made him formidable. When his brother, far too young to be able to be able to hold a sword – nonetheless swing it – chose him as the one whose footsteps he wanted to follow, their parents were dismayed. His father expressed wished the one just older than young Gaheris would go instead, seemed almost too eager to see near-as-young Mordred gone from the walls Lot wished to share with no man, Their mother, though, only offered them a sad sort of frown as she gave them her blessing to trek to Camelot.

They were greeted at the castle's gates by strangers, men who carried no insignia, disposable lives with no name to carry to their graves with pride should Camelot come under siege. When they saw Gawain's heraldry, they seemed to scramble to ignite a chain of command that reached far beyond power they could ever hold.

And that, Gawain understood.

Proud Gawain, head always held higher than his stature made possible, took one look at his Uncle and fell to one knee, barely keeping the other up to make a proper bow rather than turn his Uncle and King into an iconoclast. Young Gaheris, taken aback by his brother's unprecedented display of respect, took almost too long to mirror the pose. 

“My nephews,” their Uncle said fondly, “please, rise, come, come.”

They rose, almost in a haze – their uncle was so young, near as young as Gawain, nowhere near as old as Kings were meant to be – and followed, whispers too obvious to be anything but meant to reach their ears following them down hallways, around turns that told them this castle, this Camelot, was far more resplendent than what their own father had to his name.

That what Gawain would one day have to his name.

He knew then what it was to be eclipsed, to have all the light shoved out of him, to face the notion he was only great when measured against the lesser.

They came to the throne room, a place so beautiful Gawain could not help the gasp that escaped him. The stained glass let light into the room in colors Gawain had only been allowed to imaging as a child. As he grew, the realities of life were trained into him through harsh War Marshalls and even harsher lessons from his father. He had given up the hope that man could tame the rainbows he'd seen after storms, come to accept that there was nothing that would let him bring the splendor of the world inside where it was safe and warm.

Here was a King that did not have to choose between beauty and safety, whose ancestors had build a foundation the gods themselves suddenly seemed unable to touch, would not have been able to break if they tried.

“You are welcome here as if it is your home,” their Uncle told them, “Please, treat it as such.”

Gawain had no idea what that meant.

–

Gaheris followed him around as if he'd lost his way and trusted Gawain to find it for him. It was too much, sometimes, moreso on days the older, more experienced men who had already been knighted took Gawain to task in the training yard as if they expected him to be their equal because he was nephew to the King.

Would they make fun of him, he wondered, if they knew what he was capable of? Would they think him a monster, made inhuman by the magic that coursed through his veins? He dared not draw from the sun like this, not when those he'd hoped to be equal to treated him as a child. It would be seen as a coward's act, he feared, a boy who had no strength of his own who needed magic to accomplish what the rest of his Uncle's men had learned to do on their own.

Still, his little brother followed him, looked up to him in ways both literal and not. Gaheris already had hints of Agrivane's height, the boy seemed to be made of gangling limbs and hope – things Gawain did not think he had ever had to his name.

Their time in Camelot did both of them a lot of good, both of them looking more man than boy as the seasons wore on.

Arthur knighted Gawain on his seventeenth name day, declaring that Gawain had indeed grown into a man and was worthy of the title as the rest of the Knights he had spent the better part of a year training with.

As his Uncle's sword came to rest on his shoulder, its weight much heavier than he had expected, he had no idea how much his world had changed within the span of that moment.

–

Mercy, Gawain, had always thought, was for those who had weakness in their hearts. Those whose souls cowed only before God, he had heard, had no need for mercy.

His Uncle's wedding feast was an affair grander than any other Gawain had seen before. The fair now-Queen Guinevere sat by his side, looking more bewildered than excited by this life she had been thrown into. People Gawain knew did not normally work in the castle's kitchens brought platter after platter of foods so rich he feared he would be sick.

When the Merlin told everyone to stay seated through what seemed at the time a spectacle to be remembered for the rest of his days and replayed in his dreams, he did not know how little he understood about what his Uncle's decision to make him into a Knight meant for both deed and word.

As he traveled to find the white hart with young Gaheris in tow, he did his best to overcome them as swiftly as possible such that he may be the one the Merlin praised in front of the courts and King with his new Queen.

Their last hurdle, a man who thought killing Gawain's hunting dogs was the correct course of action, met Gawain's ire and sense of righteousness, the sun's strength fueling each blow, his love of his hounds and their loyalty creating a sense of loss he had not known before, the recognition of the sense only serving to further fuel his sun-filled rage.

In his rage, the pleas for mercy from the elder stranger who thought he could punish the dogs for the sins of the master did not reach any part of Gawain until it was too late and it was not his opponent who lay beheaded at his feet, but a woman who thought her life was worth less than his.

The brothers saw the hart slain and its head taken as their trophy, saw strangers tie woman's head to their horse to slash the valor they'd won with the head of the hart. The head of the woman who had paid with her life to cure Gawain's blindness to the value of mercy had become fetid by the time they made it back to Camelot.

–

Gawain kept his head low, slept through most of the day for a long time. Even Gaheris had given up attempting to rouse his brother as the sun's first rays as Gawain had once came to fetch him. There were never enough moments in a day to do everything, Gawain had once taught him.

His moments how seemed too many, the days too long and it was not just the summer's nature that made Gawain's world this way.

“It does nothing to hide from the world,” his Uncle cautioned him over breakfast one of the mornings his other Uncle, the one who spent most of his days hidden away amongst the servants, had hauled him out of bed and into the hall, a set of clothes thrust into his arms before he understood what was happening.

“It does no good to be out in it,” Gawain spoke to Camelot's King as if he were having a verbal spat with one of his brothers still in their father's castle, “Not for me, anyways.”

Arthur made a disappointed noise but did not press the issue further. There were, Gawain figured, much better things a King had to do than try to tell one of his Knights that there was more to the world than their failures.

Where Gawain had reached the height of greatness, flown higher than his father could have dreamed of, it had destroyed him.

–

Days grew shorter and the time Gawain's elders spent with their drinks and memories of days when they still held years over Gawain's given age to their names. It was an alienating thing, a notion that made him feel as if he was playing at Court as he did with Agrivane when they were both too young for lessons but old enough to be left to their own devices.

Only now there was no one who would come to tell them to let go of their fancies, no one to tell them what real life would look like. There was no Agrivane, either, no Mordred, just young Gaheris, too young to be a Knight and stuck with his fool of a brother.

The midwinter's feast found Camelot alive in the darkness, the hall adorned with so many candles it seemed day even in the middle of the night. There were plates upon plates of food meant to remind everyone how well-prepared Camelot was in the face of this season of death and static.

Gawain went through the motions, smiled when someone spoke to him, ate when he was not being engaged by another or distracted by a conversation that was not his to take part of. If anyone had looked at him in more than just a passing glance, they might have seen the melancholy that had settled over the almost too-young Knight since the debacle after wedding of the King and Queen had not actually left him.

When the stranger with his helmet on strode through the feast hall as if it belonged to him, Gawain was one of the first to stare, his attention having been on nothing. His armor was adorned with holly leaves and carried an axe with ornate metal overlays around the handle and back of the blade at his hip.

He had never seen such purpose, such pride carried by a man. Even hidden completely in armor that must have weighed near as much as Gawain, there was something about this stranger that made Gawain's life come to a sudden halt.

This stranger came to a halt at the King's table and did not bow. Instead, he removed his helmet, a green glow seeming to _be_ the man more than it seemed to radiate from him.

“I come to issue a challenge,” the stranger's voice was not boastful. It carried through the hall, made Gawain's bones vibrate.

“Then issue it,” Arthur seemed bored already.

The stranger smirked and removed one of his gauntlets. The same green glow shone from his hand as he did so.

“Once I throw this down,” he said as he held the gauntlet aloft, “whosoever takes it may take one swing with my axe. Whatever mark they leave, I will leave on them a year and a day from now.”

The silence in the feast hall was even more unnatural than the green that seemed a part of the man.

The gauntlet hit the ground with a sound that echoed, reminded everyone how stunned they all were. 

No one moved for far too long.

From the corner of his eye, Gawain saw his uncle begin to stir.

He saw the King willing to walk into a trap for his entire court and their guests to see because there was not one among his men willing to risk themselves that their King might not have to.

Gawain lept over the table, landed with a thud, the leathers that covered his feet making it sound like flesh on stone.

He took the gauntlet and raised it above his head.

“I accept,” there was a fervor to Gawain's declaration, “I, Sir Gawain of Orkney, accept your challenge.

The stranger chuckled and loosed his axe from the rest of him. It was handed to Gawain with such a gentleness that Gawain thought he was being mocked.

The stranger stood still and waited.

Gawain closed his eyes, imagined the candles to be hundreds of suns, drew from their power as he opened his eyes and took his swing. 

The stranger's head fell to the floor and rolled a few paces before coming to a stop .

Then the stranger stepped forward to pick up his head.

Chaos erupted.

“See you in a year and a day,” the head said to Gawain, “ at the Green Chapel. Your horse will know the way if you do not.”

Gawain excused himself from the banquet just in time for his stomach to empty itself of its contents.

–

He spent the year finding other men to teach Gaheris to avoid the sins of his elders, to take care of the brother who wanted to shine as bright as the sun but never felt the magic that cursed Lot's first-born.

Gaheris did not understand why Gawain had to leave, why he could not simply get lost or disappear on the day his death had been scheduled.

Gawain did not know how to explain the stranger was of the fair folk and the fair folk, despite their name, were often cruel creatures who valued seeing binding deals out to their ends than they did things such as mercy and the given rules of the world.

–

Gawain left weeks before he needed to, the waiting worse than knowing he would not live to see his brothers become Knights, would not get to learn what lives they would lead. His own life had been forfeit the moment he'd killed a woman because he did not value the code set forth by his Uncle.

“Find a way,” Gaheris pleaded with tears in his eyes, “come back _home_ , Gawain.”

“Thank you,” his Uncle told him, “for being the one brave enough.”

There was something unspoken Gawain did not pick up, something his Uncle could not bring himself to say aloud.

_Thank you for sparing my life._

–

He let his horse guide him between towns, let himself go ways he did not know himself. Had he found these sights when he was younger, he might have found beauty in them despite the winter's decay.

–

“You look lost, young traveler,” a stranger beckoned to Gawain, “Please, come, help me carry my day's hunt and you may have warm supper.”

Despite taking a stranger's offer being what got him into his current situation, he accepted.

–

“What day is it?” Gawain asked.

“Three days before the winter's solstice,” the stranger's wife told him, “Have you been traveling so long you've forgotten days?”

“I suppose I have,” Gawain realized, “I have to be somewhere the day after the solstice,” he paused, “The Green Chapel?”

“Ah,” the man nodded, “you are close. Maybe a half-day's ride.”

“If you wish, you may stay here,” his wife offered, “Rest your bones and warm your soul.”

Despite not believing is soul would warm while it held the knowledge of what he had done, he accepted.

–

He accepted the man's offer, a trade – whatever the man's catch was for whatever Gawain was given throughout the day. It meant Gawain would not have to hunt, would not have to mind the man's hounds.

It meant that even though he was a man marching to his death, there was not a chance he would have to relive the quest for the white hart. For that, Gawain would trade anything.

He accepted a modified version of the woman's offer, simple a kiss. It was not that Gawain did not know of the carnal pleasures other people had to offer, but that he feared what the woman offered would not be traded well with her husband.

She had pressed upon his honor, told him it spoke ill of who he was as a Knight should he refuse the request of a woman outright.

Gawain wondered if she knew.

The man delighted in this trade, and Gawain found him warmed more by this stranger than any fire he had sat by. When the second day played out much the same, Gawain almost allowed himself to forget these strangers would be the last to touch him.

On the third day, the woman said to him: “You are afraid.”

“Is not everyone, in their own way?” Gawain tried to avoid answering.

“Here,” she held out a girdle, the same color green as the strange Fair Folk of a man who he should have killed with his single swing of his axe, “It's magic. It will protect you from harm.”

If what got him here cheated with magic, then so perhaps could he.

He traded only the kiss on the third night, let himself pour his fears into the thing. 

Beside him, the woman chuckled.

–

When Gawain awoke it was still dark. He fastened the girdle under his shirts and left silently. This was no place for good-byes. This way, he may leave them with only fond memories rather than have to watch him go afraid to his last day on earth.

He walked beside his horse until the sun rose, then mounted the animal and let it take him the rest of the way.

The Green Chapel was not green at all. Perhaps it once had been made of light wood, but it had not been used or even upkept for years.

“This is it,” he said as he dismounted, “You behave yourself, go find someone who deserves you.”

He hoped the animal wound.

He had to ram the chapel door open with his shoulder, the hinges stuck from rust and disuse.

Inside was another world, one that was indeed lush with greenery, something out of time.

The walls were adored with art unlike any Gawain had ever seen, the richness of the hues making them seem almost real.

He found himself drawn to one in particular, the image of a winged young man falling to his watery doom, the sea so dark and heavens so bright, his face contorted in horror.

“Do you know who that is?” a too-familiar voice said from behind him.

“Lucifer?” Gawain guessed.

“Icarus,” the voice said. If Gawain turned around, perhaps it would not be true. The man he'd let himself feel vulnerable in front of and the Fair Folk who was going to kill him were not one in the same.

“Icarus?” Gawain asked despite his desire to flee.

“His father let him escape certain death, fashioned his son wings made of wax and feathers,” the not-enough-of-a-stranger-for-Gawain's-liking told him, “Warned him not to fly too low or the feathers would become soaked with spray from the sea, but also not to fly too high or the wax would melt. Icarus, with his new freedom, did not understand how high was too high.”

“And his wings melted,” Gawain surmised, “His father's sacrifice was for nothing.”

“The stories do not tell us if he lives or dies,” there was a hand on Gawain's shoulder, “People can survive impossible things.”

Gawain twisted to loose the hand, stand on his own and finally face his executioner.

“Like getting their heads cut off?” Gawain did not bother to keep his anger hidden, “You give me shelter, teach me things about myself, let me feel safe for three days all the while knowing I am a doomed man?” Gawain forced the girdle off and held it aloft as he had the gauntlet a year and a day ago, “You told her to give me this, didn't you?” Gawain demanded, “Wanted to see exactly how much of a coward I am.”

Gawain threw the girdle on the ground with a scream.

“Do it,” Gawain demanded, “Bring me to my end and let me stop my waiting.”

“It is what you want?” the other asked. Gawain nodded. “Very well, then.”

Gawain closed his eyes and let his anger run through him as he awaited the blow.

The wind from the axe was felt a moment before the blade kissed his neck.

And nothing more.

“What?” Gawain croaked, opened his eyes and looked to where the other was standing, the axe throwing his arms back as if he had struck stone with full force.

Gawain raised his hand to the back of his neck and felt the wetness of blood but no tear, no muscle.

“What?” Gawain asked again, a sob tangled with this iteration of the question.

The not-man, not-god chuckled softly. “Oh young prince,” the sigh was a heavy thing, “you have spent so long chasing the sun that you have not realized how low you have been flying. You are capable of much, much more than the sun – capable of growth and change and shifting with the turning of the wheel – capable of all the Earth is capable of. You are fueled by the unreachable, yes, but the life you are meant for is not out of reach. You need only to embrace the earth and let yourself take root.”

This Fair Folk knew of Gawain's magic – but how?

Gawain made a noise of disbelief. “I am only what the sun gives me.”

“Perhaps,” the other was amused, “So too are the trees and crops only what the sun gives them, yet they are the cornerstones of life as we know it. An axe may fell a sapling with one strike, but an oak that knows all the secrets of the land will barely be touched by even the strongest man.”

There was an implication that it was the magic Gawain received from the sun that had saved his life. Not mercy, not pity.

Gawain had saved himself.

Gawain chewed on the inside of his lip, eyes cast to the floor, a mix of shame and discomfort preventing him from looking the one who'd teased out his greatest weakness and fear in the guise of a contest of strength. 

“You're Gawain, yes?”

Gawain nodded.

“I am Bertilak.”

Gawain looked up, slowly, his eyes not masking any of what he felt. Still, knowing the name of the other made it somehow more bearable to show what his soul was made of.

–

They spent near a week together, learning secrets of the land and sky and sun and moon. There was no chill the winter could bring that would reach them. Gawain felt near out of time, the moments lingering between touches and kisses.

Gawain found promises and made promises without saying a word, learned things about the Heavens no priest of the God who Camelot followed would ever know. 

Bertilak learned more about humanity than he ever could by simply watching, reveled in how the depth of this Knight's – _his_ Knight's – life coursed through his soul. 

They traded secrets of their own, whispers and tears and found hope within each other.

–

It was time to return to Camelot.

It was time to let his family know that, despite the expected outcome, he was very much alive.

He carried new heraldry, a symbol that would forever remind him of what he learned.

“How do you feel?” It was, perhaps, an attempt at delaying their separation, having spent days that seemed like lifetimes tangled as one, neither of them counting Gawain's departure as a wanted moment.

“Like I am about to sheer off my wings,” Gawain answered too fast to let words that may hide his pain take the truth's place.

“Oh my sweet Icarus,” Bertilak put the palm of his hand to Gawain's cheek and jaw, his thumb brushing Gawain's lips, “your wings are strong and you will yet learn what it feels like to fly without falling.”

As Gawain rode away, Bertilak's words t felt like a promise that would be kept.


End file.
